Rolling waves and roads coastline, land stranded boats on blocks or on their sides and ziggurat lobster trap piles, splash orange red yellow leaves shock through the fog and all day the track kicks up fifty feet to drop again so we lean and swing over the hoods. We smile at the Maine accent, the boots and the patched worn hoodies and quick nods of acknowledgement. Working fishing villages, motors echo off dock and clapboard houses. Breakfast at a diner, dinner at a pound, Laphroaig standing around the firepit.
We’ll do a loop of Cape Rosier, pedal down to Stonington in the hollering moonlight darting headlamp tracers. Then to Acadia National Park with its carriage trails, somehow both manicured and wild feeling. That’s where we’ll see the ocean overflowing any sensible sensory scale and will get blown sideways across the yellow line on Cadillac Mountain. That’s where most of the day in the rain won’t be somber but the right grey to smear elements together and fill already heavy legs.
Winter Harbor darkness again, slalom in the fog with our lights off steering by shadow.
Fire roads cut up the inland woods, and they are on a kind of fire, the sign at the edge of the field reads not to trample, it’s cleared for blueberries. As if the land has to insist its answer to monochrome, as if colors are moods.